Afterwards, the venue lets us leave our stuff on stage so we don’t have to load up until morning. My brain is fogged, and I’m worried I’m not pulling my weight. More than anything else, I’m beginning to succumb to all the waiting around: my throat is scratchy, my forehead hot. I send my wife a text telling her I’ll be back by lunchtime. Twenty minutes later, I send a second text that says, “You don’t seem that psyched.”Eventually, my wife answers, saying she’s just been to view a house.

Source: The Guardian March 11, 2017 06:00 UTC